Bikini party

She stands alone in the quiet room, fingers already hooked beneath her bikini bottoms. Blonde hair spills over bare shoulders while she watches the window, the winter light turning the glass into a pale mirror. She slips the fabric down, slow, deliberate, until it clings at her knees. The brunette wants the same heat, wants skin on skin, wants mouths and fingers and everything that comes after the first drink. For now, she is the only one here. She presses two fingers between her legs, finds herself wet, lets the wet sound carry in the empty space. She pictures the others walking in, eyes dropping, smiles spreading. Her breath hitches. The bikini top stays on, bright triangles framing nothing but skin, and she keeps touching herself, hips rolling, until the first knock at the door sounds like a promise.